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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26784865">Sex with a ghost</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Five needs to feel like he's doing something good, Masturbation, Praise Kink, The Handler is gone but not forgotten, a dash of objectification</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:40:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,317</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26784865</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the hollow of the night, Five is compelled to reflect on his needs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Number Five | The Boy/The Handler (Umbrella Academy)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sex with a ghost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set after s2 but imagine coming back to a time that's just Regular </p><p>Also don't do the choking thing it is 2 dangerous u will die,<br/>but Five is kinda into that</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Five had put his contradictions aside when he was power-walking through the world. If he was holding more than one thought, the thought that seemed more useful to him would always win, like a spartan rock-paper-scissors game. It had been how he organized himself for as long as he could remember, even before the apocalypse held him whole.</p><p>Now that it was all over, he could think about it, all of it-</p><p>He had little choice in the matter, honestly.</p><p>He locked the door, checked the door, checked it again. It made a little rattling sound every time he reached for the handle. He held his hand on it.</p><p>If someone had been watching him, he would know, and he would take them out within seconds. This feeling of being split open, of being subject to morbid scrutiny, was coming from the inside.</p><p>Still, he checked the door again.</p><p>The dark felt invasive tonight. It transported him to places other than his room, all the dark places he’s ever been with guns and knives and a sense of forward momentum. He had been <em>moving,</em> then. Now, he’s left to sit on sheets that feel juvenile and ancient underneath him, stiff enough to be crunchy.</p><p>He took a breath rough enough to hear it.  </p><p>
  <em>Poor, lost little weapon. </em>
</p><p>The words entered his mind with the sharpness and clarity that he once expected from Dolores. They were not the same. He pressed his eyes shut.</p><p>
  <em>Do you miss it?</em>
</p><p>Her voice rumbled like a storm, rolling in slow, fashionably late.</p><p>
  <em>Do you miss <strong>me?</strong></em>
</p><p>Right in his ear, at the base of his skull, in his mind. He breathed out.</p><p>Turns out Klaus was genuinely committing to sobriety for the moment. Five had searched the outline of his brother’s daily life, a kind of scavenger hunt to see if he could confiscate any spare substances<em>.</em> It had occupied him. It had <em>excited</em> him. It had been the first <em>goal</em> he had taken on in days, and he was so raw from coming up short that he had come dangerously close to having a visible meltdown in an empty alleyway.</p><p>It was disturbing to be so moved, particularly when he knew damn well that he could hunt down any substance he wanted within 48 hours if that was the aim. Truth be told, it hadn’t been. Sure, he had wanted to give the electricity ripping through his veins at any given time a dampener, but more than anything he had wanted to do a job, and do it correctly.</p><p>He got up, checked the windows, checked the windows, checked the windows.</p><p>Nighttime muted every distraction and gave nothing in return. Tonight, he’s all aimless hunger for blood and sex and a cause, coming up short on every front.</p><p>He grabs his own wrist and squeezes. He ponders his hands. They’re not clean, never will be, maybe never were. He remembers them older, with scars and calluses.</p><p>He remembers standing in The Handler’s office, her hand wrapping his around a shiny new gun. It had been a ridiculous move, he didn’t need the help, but she had been in a controlling mood and decided to play with him like an action figure, moving his hands and shoulders and head around until he had the correct stance.</p><p><em>‘Perfect,’</em> she had said, low and slow and satisfied when he had been maneuvered to her liking. It had been utterly bizarre to him at the time, and it was all the more humiliating to be reflecting on it now, half-hard and imbuing the moment with some sacred retroactive meaning.</p><p>
  <em>What does <strong>perfect </strong>look like now, Number Five?</em>
</p><p>He’s never gone for anything fancy on his own. He’s been a utilitarian wanker for most of his life, adjusting his technique to honor his love in the wastes but simple on the whole. Making love with Dolores was ritualistic and peaceful- kneel, cuddle, cling and offer <em>tribute</em>.</p><p>Fucking the handler had been whatever slice of what he could tolerate that she wanted. Shady little motel, office desk, dirty episodes that went down as smoothly as the breakfast beer he once saw her crack in Las Vegas. She wasn’t going to put those fingers in him with that manicure, but he would eat her out like he was still starving in the wastes if it would end the conversation faster and allow him to get back to work.</p><p>He would get on top, or underneath, or angle it to the side and do the best he could before moving on. That was what he had told himself at the time, that it was all disposable in comparison to his ends, but the words she had said to him as he carried out his<em> tasks</em> were buried a bit deeper than he had given them credit for.</p><p>
  <em>Yes, just like that, keep going, oh, <strong>Five.</strong></em>
</p><p>His wrist kept working.</p><p>
  <em>Such a good boy for me.</em>
</p><p>His head tipped back, making slow contact with the wall. His breathing changed as he tensed at the memories, all of them at once, the killing and the fucking and the <em>‘good job, Number Five.’</em></p><p><em>It didn’t <strong>have</strong> to be her</em>, he reasoned as he clenched his jaw and swallowed, <em>it didn’t have to be her.</em> If praise was all he needed, he could get it from someone else- he could do anything well and hear what he deserved to hear.</p><p>He predicted her interruption before it happened, perhaps he fed her the line.</p><p>
  <em>Oh, but it <strong>was.</strong> </em>
</p><p>In his mind, she’s enjoying him like this, and he’s knit too tight to unpack that right now. He thinks of her curves, all sickening and deadly.</p><p>
  <em>Who’s going to fuck you like me, now that I’m gone?</em>
</p><p>He holds himself a little tighter. He thinks of her looking down on him with a gun, smiling.</p><p>A fantasy braids itself out of shadows and impulses and memories as he spirals. He imagines her at the foot of his bed, a ghost, all classic style with her tits pushed up, how she likes to dress when she’s making a point.</p><p>She crawls over him, takes her time covering him, and as her representative on earth, his free hand follows hers as it spreads over his neck. He imagines where her fingernails would dig into his skin and holds her invisible gaze as he tenses his hand.</p><p>She issues an order, because at this stage, she has more awareness of reality than him.</p><p>
  <em>Tighter.</em>
</p><p>His head is swimming in fog and gore and <em>so good for me, Five, show me how good you are</em>. He changes his movements, moving more of his hips than his hand.</p><p>The wave is building. It’s hard to hold onto any one thought, and even the fantasy begins to crackle at the edges, but in this moment he holds onto the <em>why</em> more dearly than he clings to life.</p><p>Be good. Be <em>good.</em></p><p>He imagines her speaking directly into his ear, out of sight and more real than he is, words tearing through him like raw electricity-</p><p>
  <em>Be a good boy and come for me, Number Five. </em>
</p><p>He does.</p><p>God, he does.</p><p> </p><p>When he comes down, the night crashes back around him like a wave. He cleans himself off and puts himself away, pressing down all feeling until he’s washed and in a pair of fresh pajamas. He’s sure his throat is not okay, but hopefully will be tomorrow, or the day after.</p><p>In a spasm of whimsy or self-loathing, he tries to sing the song he heard in the car after killing a pair of florists- <em>was it florists?—</em>watching her emerge from the house. It comes out rough and wrecked.</p><p>
  <em>I get no kick from champagne-</em>
</p><p>
  <em>mere alcohol, it doesn't move me at all,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>so tell me, why should it be true</em>
</p><p>
  <em>that I get a kick out of you?</em>
</p>
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